Here’s another piece

Here’s another piece to release these urges to produce, to increase the lease your patience has insured me, to assure myself that sure I’ll sell once my words are all collected and my book will hit the shelves. Here’s another piece I’ve written just to appease my own insecurities, my introverted pleas to the internet exploiting my weakness when it comes to seeking acceptance. Here’s another piece with words that rhyme at least a little if you read them fast enough and forgive the fact that all I’ve done is wasted sixteen seconds of your life.

(bleep)ing (bleep) up, part 1

I’m writing a violent, three part action-oriented love story for the crusade. Part 1 sees bloody lips, hairy chests, and lots of dead bad guys.

Conceited Crusade

It’s not like I expect it to feel good or anything, but shit, the first punch of the day always ends up more painful than anticipated. I twist back into the wall and my eyes feel like they are about to pop out of their sockets. Years of getting pummeled in the jaw means my body has adapted a natural recoil, so I bounce back to spit a wad of blood in his face. The kid flinches, and I jab my knuckles into his throat. A knee to the gut. An elbow to the back of his neck. His spine acts like a marionette puppet and I am its master. He’s on the ground: done. I kick him in the ribs for good measure before wiping my busted lip. I’d feel good about myself but this is only goon #1. He shouldn’t even have made contact. The second and third…

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Sergeant

A collaboration with Fred Colton and Underdaddy.

Fred Colton

This short story is a collaboration with two fellow Crusaders: Underdaddy and G.Z. Kieft.

Fred Colton:

Now it was their turn for a riot. It kicked off as night fell. Gas from cop grenades curled and spots of fire lit up the cityscape to the north. Downtown looked like Tokyo after it got firebombed.

Keith was called in. Had to set up barricades. He burned around a corner fast with the squad car sirens on and blue lights pumping.

I’m coming through; move.

On his right he saw movement in a pawn shop. He braked hard against the curb and squawked his megaphone. Four figures evaporated out of the place. Two slithered out the back door and the other two gazelle-hopped through the hole where the storefront window had been. Wiry kids. Opportunists. Their sneakers skittered and slipped on the glass shards. Then they were gone.

Keith blinked. The…

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Adam’s Prey

He wrote thrillers. Had only wanted one woman his entire life. Never had the balls to fall in love with her, though – in the back of his head he always wondered if she’d end up like one of his characters. Now he sat here, at some French bakery across from her. Not the one woman, but some woman he met who had asked to see him here.
She wrote words, she’d said. Her wide brimmed hat lay over her pitch-black hair and hid one of her eyes. The other looked up tentatively between gaps of the smoke lingering from her cigarette. Her lips were thin and angry, but with every puff she found brief elation.
“You’re pretty boring.” She said. Her voice dragged when she spoke. Like each letter wanted to be as far away from the other as possible.
He didn’t know how to respond, so he looked away. Instant, un-editable life was foreign to him.
“I like this bakery.” He said, finally. “I always get a…”
“If I wanted to know how you felt about this bakery I’d look up your Yelp review.”
He had, actually, left a review two weeks ago.
The question was slow to come to conclusion. He was unsure if it was the right one to ask. “You looked up my review on Yelp?”
Her response came matter-of-factly. “Because I wanted to know if you’d like this bakery.”
He couldn’t tell if she liked him, or if she was just a giant cunt. Her eyes were dagger sharp, like a single look could crush his nuts. Then with every puff, her eyes softened, and a similar look promised a very different kind of conclusion. The way that cigarette entered and left her lips.
“So what do you like to do?” He distracted himself. “Besides write.”
“I don’t care to learn more about myself.” She was angry again. “And you’re obviously only asking to fill blank space on a page.”
“I’m not.” His eyebrows rose up so innocently high into his forehead they nearly disappeared into his hair.
She looked down and her hat shadowed her whole face. Cigarette smoke trailed around the rim until it escaped into the atmosphere. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”
“What the fuck do you want me to talk about?” He bit his bottom lip and his grip tightened around the croissant he was about to eat. Golden flakes dwindled onto the white tablecloth. His outburst caught her attention, and she looked up and for the first time, both eyes were visible. Her mouth was open and her cigarette hung loosely on her bottom lip. She only stared until and past the point he became uncomfortable.
“What?” His voice juddered.
“You finally sound like yourself.” She sounded exhilarated. “Like the man I’ve been reading.”
He only stared at her, until his own words shook from his mouth and he had to look away. “That’s not me, what I write.”
“Why are you ashamed?”
“I’m nothing like Adam.”
“Is it because you don’t like the way he fucks?” Her foot found its way up his leg until her heel pinned down the material by his crotch to the chair.
He got up real quick, throwing her off him. She recovered nonchalantly, but he had made a scene.
“You’re fucking crazy.” He said. His eyes were wide. His hands were clenched.
Her dark pupils didn’t leave his. She stood up, tossing her cigarette down and walking to him with clicking heels.
“If it’s any consolation,” She got close so she could whisper her next words in his ear with warm breath. “I like the scene where he rips her apart.”

Millennial denial

Life spins like cotton candy
pink like mixing blood and brandy
all we can is barely breathe
as judgment slips out from our teeth.
Under cloudy skylines,
rowdy times, right?
Alcohol clouding
proper hindsight.
We place salvation
in the hands of celebration and
our congregation is
lead by drunken
conversations.

We’ve created this distance
to resist having to
listen.
Because bitching about
Facebook, for instance,
is equivalent to
reminiscing
about your Minecraft addiction
and I can only take so much
before I want to take your head off
and paint my hands in crimson.

So we drink until Facebook
sounds good
and your judgments
fade to
hateful
insecurities.
I’d rather get
shit faced and
hate me
than listen to one more
of your godawful internet
fantasies.

Someone Else’s Writing

A frequent word lingers in me like the aftertaste of a bitter wine. Whatever the author used most. I hear myself think it for the rest of the day, vibrating through my skull, drilling into my brain, reminding me that next time I write I should use that word. Once, only. Not to plagiarize. Not to copy. As an ode, a nod to my affinity for a piece.

My jealousy.

After I read someone else’s writing I always have to read something I wrote. Immediately, to compare. I can see mistakes now – ways I could’ve said things better. Periods I could’ve moved. Sentences I could’ve shortened. I consider never writing but what keeps me going is hoping that other authors do the same.